


Worried About You

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Post canon, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pregnancy, just fluff, married sylgrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: Sylvain comes home to a very worried, and very pregnant, wife.Just a fluffy interaction before they have their first child.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	Worried About You

Usually, Sylvain was more than eager to get home. It always seemed to be the only thing that kept his heart beating, that kept blood flowing in his veins. There was little else that made him eager to survive like a warm home and the even warmer smile that awaited him. Few things that compelled him like a chance to envelop his wife in his arms.

But not this time. No, he was pretty sure he’d only earn a frigid glare the moment he stepped through that door, far colder than the snow that surrounded Gautier manor. She’d call him careless, thoughtless even, heedless of the way he knew others worried over him. He’d be lectured for not stepping up to his role properly, for still acting like the foolish teen he’d once been.

Not that he could really blame her. He _had_ been a fool. He’d brought only half of his men to Sreng, knowing that their relationship was stable enough to render a large guard unnecessary. And while that had been accurate—the agreements had gone exceedingly well, and the warlords even offered some of their own men to fight alongside Sylvain’s ranks—it had been stupid to not bring a full escort.

They’d been attacked just as they were re-entering Gautier. It wasn’t Srengi men, or bandits, or even mercenaries. It was his own people: former lords and knights who had served faithfully under his father, men who Sylvain had once known closely. Men who fervently had protested the treaty, and who had resigned the moment his quill hit the parchment. Men who wanted the margrave dead so Gautier could return to normal. It didn’t matter that ‘normal’ was a mixture of hunger and struggle, of constant strife and want. It was a world without outsiders, without change, and so they craved it.

It had been a difficult victory, but it had been won all the same. If it weren’t for the Srengi warriors, he wondered if might be him buried beneath the snow. If it would be him leaving behind a wife who impatiently awaited his return.

“Margrave,” one of his mages stepped up to his side, concern barely hidden behind her smile, “should we stop for a bit?”

“It’s fine.” He said, offering her a smile of his own. He was the far better actor.

“But my Lord—”

“We’re already late enough.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Ingrid’ll kill me if I’m any later.”

“I’m not sure the margravine will—”

“It’s fine.” Sylvain insisted, letting a bit more command seep into his tone. “You all did plenty. I’ll meet with the healers at home.”

The mage nodded, likely unable to argue with something so perfectly rational. They had certainly expended most of their strength in healing the rest of their party, barely sparing the squad from any losses. To do more would be to their detriment; if there were any more obstacles in the way, he needed his mages still capable.

It wasn’t like he was bleeding, anyway. The cut had been shallow—the gash in his coat small enough that it was barely even noticeable—the majority of the damage was one immense bruise that stretched all along his side. And, as he was still perfectly capable of breathing and walking, he was sure nothing critical had been damaged.

Not that he’d actually let the healers examine him to be sure, but still. He was already late coming home. Anything not life-threatening could be put off for a bit longer.

Sylvain let out a shaky exhale. His fingers were finally touching the doorknob—but he’d been like this for five minutes now. And that was after he had walked as slowly as possible across the manor and up the stairs—a man crawling on his hands and knees would have been faster. It was kind of pathetic, if he was being honest.

It wasn’t like he didn’t _want_ to see her. He’d missed Ingrid desperately. He’d spent innumerable hours spent yearning for her touch, or imagining his feather-light touches leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. Her voice was in his head when his thoughts had turned darker, keeping him from plummeting into the abyss of doubts. The memory of her smile was enough to keep him warm in the darkest nights.

When they’d been ambushed, the thought ‘ _I can’t leave her alone_ ’ had kept him alive more than the Lance of Ruin had.

But Sylvain was also realistic. He’d promised that he’d only be gone for two weeks. Just enough to get to Sreng, handle some formalities there, and return home. The attack had taken a day to overcome, and three days more for his men to be well enough to travel once more. And, since they hadn’t healed all the way, it took twice the time to return home.

It had been a month since he’d last seen his wife. He was sure his letter had reached her, hopefully had soothed her concerns—goddess, the last thing he needed was for her to _worry_. But still he had promised that he would be by her side, and he’d broken it without even trying.

He knew Ingrid. She had to be furious.

He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands just at the nape of his neck. Well, she’d certainly be _more_ enraged if she opened the door and found him standing there like a fool.

With another sigh, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The room hadn’t changed too much since he’d last been here. The curtains were drawn closed, probably to keep the cold from seeping through the cracks. To make up for the darkness, the fireplace was bright with a well-stoked fireplace, letting a warm light seep into the rest of the room. His desk was organized, lacking in any piles of work he’d been certain would be waiting for him. The bed looked pristine, blankets smoothed perfectly across the broad surface. It almost looked like this room hadn’t been lived in from the moment he left.

He stepped more into the room, eyes finally falling on the figure seated on a chair near the fire. Perhaps this room hadn’t changed, but his wife certainly had. Instead of her normal blanket, she had claimed his coat to warm her; she looked small in the garment as it draped over her shoulders. Her hair was down, the short strands brushing across her cheeks and jaw. Her eyes—once so bright and vivid—looked dull with the dark circles beneath them. She seemed completely absorbed in the letter in her fingers—the paper crumpled like it had seen a century’s worth of abuse, and not merely a day’s. He stepped just a bit closer, just to see what had caught her attention so.

His eyes were quick to fall on his signature at the bottom—messy and rushed from his eagerness to get notice of his delay to her.

“Ingrid?” He asked, voice as soft as he could manage so he didn’t startle her.

She didn’t jump, but she certainly stiffened. Her gaze snapped up to his, eyes wide. The letter dropped from her hands, revealing the biggest change since he’d been gone. Even through the coat and her layers, he could see that her pregnant belly had nearly doubled in size from last he’d seen her. She was close—so close—to bearing their first child, and she’d been alone.

He hurried to close the gap between them, kneeling by her chair. “I’m sorry I’m late.” He whispered.

He’d expected the shock to fade into anger. For her to start scolding him and berating him for being thoughtless. To at least remind him of how much he worried her.

Instead, the expression shifted into something entirely different. Her gaze turned soft, lips slightly parted as if caught on some unspoken word. Her fingers reached toward him, so gentle as they began to card through his hair. He hummed softly, leaning into the touch.

Like this, he could feel the slight tremble along her fingertips. He could feel them more as she cupped his face, the softness of her skin a stark contrast to the wiry hairs that he’d been too rushed and distracted to maintain.

“Welcome home.” She said, words strained like it was the most difficult thing in the world to say. He didn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, hand coming up to cover hers.

Her thumb brushed over his cheekbone. Slowly, she pulled her hand away and took his with her, guiding it to her swollen stomach. “We missed you.”

Sylvain swallowed, spreading his fingers as he slid his hand over the fabric. It was hard not to think of the hours he’d spent here, ear pressed to her stomach as he cooed at his unborn child. It was hard not to think of his utter delight as the baby kicked in response to his words. Now, he had little doubts that his child would be as upset with him as he’d expected Ingrid to be, and deprive him of any such acknowledgment. Unfortunately, he seemed to be right.

“I’m sorry.” He moved his feet to kneel in front of her, so he could more easily press a kiss to her stomach. He nuzzled against her, hands shifting so they could brush along her thighs and press into her calves. The extra weight had to be agonizing—and he’d left her to manage it on her own. “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.” Ingrid laughed, but it was broken off with a gasp.

Sylvain’s gaze shot up, knowing it _couldn’t_ be the baby kicking—as it very stubbornly wasn’t kicking for him. But it was worse, _so much_ worse. Heavy tears rolled down Ingrid’s cheeks, breaths half-stifled by one of her hands.

Sylvain’s heart dropped into his stomach. His hands immediately reached up to cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she could look at him. So quickly, his thumbs were damp with her tears. “Ingrid?” His voice sounded far more rushed, more panicked, than he’d intended. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you hurting?”

Ingrid fervently shook her head, the movement limited by his hold. “It’s nothing.”

He frowned, seeing her tears still coming unfettered. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Just hormones.” He would almost give her credit if her words hadn’t been broken by a sob.

Sylvain sighed. Well, at least she wasn’t hurt. He didn’t need to go run for a healer. But . . . that didn’t solve everything. He leaned up, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

He could feel her shudder, feel her uneasy breath against his throat. Her fingers curled into his shirt, tightening as he kissed her temple and nose and cheeks. It wasn’t solving it, but it _was_ calming her.

“I can’t help you,” he hummed, kissing along her jaw, “if you don’t tell me.”

Ingrid shook her head.

Sylvain sighed, his eyes falling on the letter that had tumbled from her lap when he’d arrived. The paper was crinkled to an almost illegible state, ink blotched and running in many places. “I worried you, didn’t I?”

It made sense. The urgent nature of his letter had probably sent her into a panic. He had, after all, been strained too much by time to give her anything but the facts. Compared to his usual flippant language, it had likely seemed more dire than it actually was. And with the constant delays, she had probably assumed the worst. She had probably had a week of sleepless nights, wondering what she would do if she had to raise their child alone.

He pulled away slightly, letting his thumbs wipe away her tears. “I’m sorry.” He kissed her, soft and quick and entirely chaste. “I wouldn’t leave you alone, you know that, right?”

Ingrid sniffled. “Sylvain. I . . . I’m not foolish enough to think you’re invincible.”

He smiled. “If I had to crawl across glad to come home to you, I would.” He let a hand fall, brushing idly over her stomach. Ever-so-slightly, he could feel his child move. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

The slightest trace of a smile slid onto her lips. Idly, she let her hands run over his shoulders and down his arms, like she needed proof that he was still intact and okay. He let her explore—glad that her touches were limited to his arms and chest—let her keep going until her tears had dried and her breaths had evened out.

“You look tired.” She said, voice soft.

He let a sly smile fall on his lips. “You should talk.”

Her lips curled, but at least it wasn’t a scowl. “It aches to lie down.” She said, the faintest blush gracing her cheeks. “And the chair is too hard.”

“Uh huh. And it wasn’t that you desperately missed me.”

She swatted at his chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her wrist. He glanced over at their bed as he kept pressing affectionate kisses there. The pillows had been sorted in a way that was nearly decorative, but now he could see how she had piled them in an attempt to sleep vaguely upright. But he knew the pillows were too soft; they’d sink and become pointless before she could even fall asleep.

He smiled against her skin. “Want to take a nap with me?”

“Sylvain—”

“Humor me.” He rose, smiling down at her as he offered his hand to help her stand.

Before she was pregnant, Ingrid only took his hand half the time. Most of the time, she thought he was teasing her, and was insistent on handling things on her own. Sometimes she had entertained him just because she knew it made his heart bloom with adoration—that it made him overly affectionate, determined to cover every inch of her in kisses. Before he’d left, she was still fairly insistent about not humoring him; often she made him watch as she struggled to rise to her feet, especially once the burden had become more noticeable. Only once had she taken his hand fully—just before he left—and only because her every step had been agonizing (and she had utterly refused his offer to carry her).

Now, though, she seemed to put all of her weight there, expression pinched as she struggled to stand. He kept his arm firm, putting his hand on hers to offer more leverage. When she finally stood, he didn’t miss the heavy breaths that she struggled to stifle.

“My lady.” He hummed, offering his arm like a right and proper escort, though his tone lacked any semblance of seriousness. She chuckled softly, taking it. He didn’t miss that her reliance on him increased with every step. He didn’t mention it, though, knowing she’d stop immediately if she thought he noticed.

When he got to the bed, he pulled away from her to rearrange the pillows and push back the blankets. He slid onto the bed easily, using the setup as a comfortable chair. He wiggled a bit, tongue peeking out just slightly as he tried to make it more pleasant. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

“Come here.” He cooed, reaching for her with his hand. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sylvain, I tried pillows. It didn’t—"

“The pillows are my chair.” He smiled. “I’m yours.”

Ingrid’s lips quirked, a soft laugh on an exhale. “If you insist.”

It was admittedly a slow process, but soon enough, Ingrid had her back pressed against Sylvain’s front, her body slouched just enough so the seat wouldn’t make her spine ache. She sighed contentedly, fully relaxed against him. He only had to lean slightly to pull the blanket over them, letting the coat on her shoulders fall somewhere on the floor.

“Better?” He asked, nuzzling the hairs by Ingrid’s ear.

She hummed, one hand on his knee and the other on her stomach. “This is perfect.”

“Good.” He let one of his hands join hers, fingertips brushing against hers.

She sighed. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“We can.” He said, pressing a kiss to her hair. “At least till the baby is born, anyway. Might as well rest up till we have to brace ourselves for some truly sleepless nights.”

“You have work to handle. I did what I could, but—”

“It can wait.”

“Sylvain.”

“I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Ingrid growled, turning so she could more easily glare at him. “ _Sylvain_.”

Normally her irritation was all fine and good, _except_ that it forced her elbow directly into his side. Sylvain gasped, too late to swallow it down as the pain jolted through his body in full. It made every muscle go rigid, taking all the restraint he had in his body to keep his fingers from pressing against her.

Normally he could hide it behind a smile—it wasn’t uncommon for one to gasp when they were surprised, or when someone did something unexpected. But he could tell that she’d know better, merely by the fact that she’d gone very, _very_ still.

He swallowed, the smile on his lips by sheer instinct. He was able, at least, to repress the shudder from a chill that ran up his spine with every throb of his side, turning his stomach more with every second.

“Sylvain . . .” Her voice was soft, a slight uncertainty just at the edge of her words.

“I’m fine.” He swallowed, trying to force himself to relax against the pillows. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her eyes flicked between his, lips pressed together tightly.

“Come on,” he said, voice more of a plea than he’d intended, “lie back down. We were having a moment.”

That was his mistake. Ingrid shifted to sit up, her back now pressed to his knee instead of his chest. With a dexterity he’d somehow forgotten, she unhooked the clasps on his tunic. At first, it seemed fine—her fingers ran up his exposed torso to reveal nothing unusual.

But Ingrid wasn’t an idiot. She was quick to push the shirt back, exposing the expanse of bruises that now had spread along his entire side, almost as dark as ink. They sat in heavier splotches by his ribs, only easing in color where they met his hipbone.

“What happened?” Ingrid asked, breathless. Her fingers clenched into his shirt.

“Hey. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Sylvain lifted his hand up to cup her cheek. He frowned as she leaned away from him.

“What. Happened.”

“I told you. We were ambushed.”

“That was at least a week ago.” Ingrid’s eyebrows were pinched, lips trembling slightly. “Where were your healers?”

He sighed, wishing he could just vanish into the pillows. “Helping the others.”

She glared at him. “You refused their help.”

“I . . .” he sighed. “It’s not that bad, so, yeah. I did.”

Her fingers finally moved from his shirt, instead brushing up his stomach and just to the edge of the bruising. Sylvain sighed, trying to focus on the feel of her fingers and not on the ache that still resonated there. He managed just enough to keep himself from getting sick with the pain.

But then there was a strange sensation, utterly foreign to the way her touch normally felt. He twitched, looking down at what she was doing.

The slight glow to her fingers was, admittedly, _not_ what he was expecting. “Is that—?”

Ingrid’s fingers moved to where the bruising was darkest. “. . . there are thin fractures in your ribs.” She whispered. “They could have broken entirely . . . and punctured a lung.”

Sylvain winced as the sensation intensified, the not-unfamiliar feeling of bone mending itself making his skin crawl. Normally it was a relief, a sort of ingrained knowledge that things would be better once the healing started, but her magic was certainly clumsy and unpracticed. He bit down on a groan. “Since when do you know faith magic?”

She didn’t look at him, instead letting he magic seep into the bruising. “I practiced for a short while at the Academy. I’ve been . . . taking it up again while you were gone. In case you were stupid enough to get hurt.”

He winced as her attention shifted to another of his ribs, the bizarre sensation of bone healing itself far more noticeable here. “Not, ah, a bad idea.”

“I’d _hoped_ I didn’t need to use it.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, trying to hide his grimace. “Let’s hope our kid doesn’t inherit my stupidity then.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you.”

“Sure you can.” He was panting now, feeling like he’d just run the entirety of the Gautier estate in three feet of snow. He ran a hand through his hair, unsurprised to find it already a bit damp with sweat. It was the price of amateur magic, he supposed, compensating with the energy of both user and beneficiary to prevent any sort of backfire. Well, he’d rather it take the energy from him than her, anyway. “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”

Ingrid paused, glancing up at him. “I know. I . . know.” Her fingers shifted down to the mess at his hip. “I hate not being there with you.”

He knew. They’d been practically inseparable since their marriage, and now she was confined to being the worried wife at home.

That was probably what she hated most. She was the guardian, the protector, his knight in shining armor. She was the one he had been able to rely on most, the one he knew would always have his back. Every time he came home, she had to face the consequences of her absence—or at least what she _thought_ were the consequences. He was pretty sure he’d get just as hurt to keep her safe. But it was hard to convince _her_ of that.

“Don’t worry.” He said, voice soft. “I’m not leaving any time soon. Next time, you’ll be well enough to come with me.”

She scoffed. “And leave our child behind?”

“Ah.” Okay, she had a point there. His parents had been perfectly fine doing that—expecting the staff to watch over the Gautier children. That had, of course, left him with a strained relationship with his parents, and susceptible to Miklan’s constant abuse. And, while he didn’t plan on instigating such a rivalry with his children, he also understood that there was value in having them close.

Ingrid sighed, letting her fingers brush over the mostly-healed bruises. “I knew the consequences of getting pregnant. I just . . .”

“I know.” He ran his hands up her sides, guiding her back to lay against him.

To his relief, she didn’t fight him. She let him lead her back. She shifted slightly as she settled, careful to avoid his side. But, soon enough, she was relaxing there once more.

Sylvain pressed a kiss to her hair. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Oh? That’s new.”

“Mmhm. About once they’re born.” His hand brushed over her stomach, fingertips tracing idle patterns into her skin. “That I’d like to stay home.”

Ingrid scowled, hand settling on his to still him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You have—”

“Obligations I know.” He nuzzled at her ear. “We’re stable enough that Sreng doesn’t care who comes to represent Gautier, so long that it _is_ a Gautier. And the people here _adore_ you. More than they care for me, anyway.”

“Sylvain, you can’t honestly be suggesting . . .?”

“Why not take my place?” He offered, pressing a kiss just at the nape of her neck. “I’d have to go when we go to Fhirdiad, but I think Dimitri would be hurt if we didn’t bring the whole family, anyway.” He smiled against her skin. “He’s a sap like that.”

She inhaled sharply. “I’m not—”

“You’re Margravine Gautier.” He said, a smile in his voice. “One of the best knights Fodlan has to offer. More respected than anyone else in Gautier. Your presence is a privilege they’d be honored to have.”

Her ears were tinted pink. “If I get pregnant again—”

“I won’t stop training.” He said, turning his affections to her shoulder. “If you get pregnant again, I’ll take over. And, eventually, the kids’ll get old enough where they can take care of eachother.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Margrave Gautier. Guardian of the north, wielder of the Lance of Ruin. Reduced to a babysitter.”

“Hey, it’ll be _my_ babies. Big difference.” He wrapped his arms around her.

Ingrid let her hands settle on his, drawing patterns in the back of his hands. “It won’t bother you that I’m not here? That you’re . . . stuck here?”

“It will.” He said, turning his hands so he could lace theirs together. “I’ll worry about you constantly—words can’t express how much I’ll worry about you—but . . . you’re the better choice. I can trust you to do this.”

“Sylvain . . .”

“And I know if you swear you’ll come home to me, then you will.”

Ingrid inhaled sharply, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I will. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter! [@kayisdreaming ](https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming).


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